A Reliable Source
by Garmonbozia
Summary: A couple of months ago, there were two men Kitty Reilly never expected to see again. Holmes's return made it one. She's about to get a shock. And no - she didn't miss him. [Set a couple of hours after HLV - a writing exercise where I picked two characters out of a... teacup.]


Every breath in and out of her rattles as if she were frozen. She claps a hand over her mouth to hold them silent, to muffle the whimper she can't control. Curled between the window and the back of the armchair, she tries to concentrate on being as small and still as possible. Maybe if she does it right, she'll just vanish out of existence. That wouldn't be so bad, non-existence.

She feels his soft, prowling steps pacing the carpet and folds up, trying to fold up on herself like a star disappearing.

"Kitty?" he calls. A whumpf of displaced air as he throws open the cupboard under the stairs, a shuddering thunk as it bounces back on itself. In soft, lilting singsong, "_Kiii_-tty?" She used to love that voice. When they first met, while everything was business, was strictly professional, Kitty thought that voice was something wonderful. Soothing and tender and...

His steps are taking him up the stairs. She could run out now. There's some space between them. Edge around the armchair, just get up, just go. But didn't he lock the door when he chased her inside? He wouldn't have left the key in the lock, would he?

A change in the steps, moving from carpet to tile. His voice echoes in the bathroom, "Here, kitty-kitty. C'mere, now." Some distance as he leans through to the bedroom, the sound of her sheets being thrown away to show him under the bed, the flap sounding as huge as an embassy flag. "Kitty, what're you hiding for? This is silly. It's only me. Only poor Rich!" More slams and shudders as he checks the wardrobe and other doors. She buries her wet face in her hands as if she could will it all away. He has paused, laughing to himself as his own joke; "Poor little Rich Brooke. See what I did there? Ah c'mon and come out. I'm not going to _hurt_ you, Kitty. Not after all you did for me. It's time you were rewarded."

She doesn't want to be rewarded. She was rewarded with fame, and has had two years to make the most of it. That's enough of a reward. Now she wants to be dead, or at least far from here. She'll give it up. They can have it all back. They can have everything, only get her away from here.

"It's _exclusive_ time again, Kitty. Maybe this time enough to move into a place with a second storey, rather than just a few extra rooms. Honestly thought I would have bought you more space than this... Then again, if you're determined to stay central, suppose there's not much we can do about that."

A single tap against tile again, and the flutter of the shower curtain. That must have been the one place he didn't check. The hiss of the sash window going up as he checks the fire escape, which really would have been a much better idea when she came in here, to escape instead of just hiding. But it's too late now.

He steps out onto the gallery landing. Looks down and smiles to himself. How silly of him to walk right past her down there. When she manages to turn her eyes up, there's something like pity, like sympathy, written in his expression. "There you are. Poor puss. You're shaking." He starts down the stairs, keeping both eyes on her the entire time. "Come out of there and sit down."

She turns, moves to the side of the armchair. Her knees, however, aren't quite ready to hold her up. Kitty tries, but it's a struggle. She grabs the chair to keep from falling. With concern, he comes to her and steadies her by the arm.

Terror is a blade to the heart. Kitty yelps, falls into the chair, "No! No, don't you touch me! I – I – I have a- a boyfriend now, and he'll be here any minute and I have a-!"

His head sways gently. With understanding, he lets go of her. Pulls a footstool close so he can sit almost in her lap. "No, you don't. Think who you're talking to. I know you better than that." He sighs, thoughtful, "Know you better than anyone does, Catherine Annabel Reilly. Born September 17th, nineteen-eighty... well, let's not get too precise about these things. Died December 29th 'fourteen, if you're not careful. Now kindly sit at peace, Kitty."

She does. He's got her blocked in now. She straightens herself into a more comfortable position and resolves to see this through. Because yes, that was a threat, but it was by no means a concrete one. It was the sort that suggests there are still an awful lot of exits open to her. She managed before. She managed with Holmes, didn't she, and got her digs in too. Kitty will manage this too.

"You were real," she says, just to grab the conversation for herself. "I mean, you as in-"

"Moriarty," he smiles and nods. "Yes. I was real."

"You made a fool of me."

"And of everyone else, dear. Don't take it so personally. But, if you'll allow me to say what I came here to say, you'll see that I don't intend to let you hang for it." He rocks back a little where he's perched. "You did well by me, Kitty. I haven't forgotten."

These are words which would be so comforting, if she could only trust them. Kitty knows she can't. But it's the voice. It's the real heart behind the eyes that study her. It's the handkerchief he takes from his inside pocket and passes to her so that she can dry her eyes.

"Sorry," he mutters, as though he's just remembered. "You're going by Catherine now, aren't you?"

She shrugs. "More serious paper, more serious image."

"Well, _that_, if you'll indulge me in a couple of seconds of Gok, is writ in your shoes. Lovely, by the way. Prada?"

Kitty reddens. Beams. She can't help it. She's still not used to good shoes. "Blahnik. They were last season. Half price..." She catches herself, clears her throat. "I still get Kitty."

"Oh, while we're on the topic of shameless flattery, I enjoyed _The Holmes Deception_. Like, to the point where my copy's starting to fall apart. It's a wonderful book, y'know. And it really doesn't read like a cash-in. I've got no idea how you did that."

It was simple, really, once she figured it out. She just had to carefully ration her use of the word 'I', provide as much blind-siding research into Sherlock Holmes as she could find and pepper the chapters with reminders that Holmes had been a very dangerous man who had to be stopped. She was only telling the story, the same way anyone else might have. With an extra, personal touch, of course.

Kitty is on the very cusp of telling him all that. Then she remembers what's happening here, who she's talking to. Her hands start to shake again, and she is stunned to realize that they must have stopped somewhere in between.

Moriarty reaches to the table next to her. Picks up her cigarettes and matches and goes about lighting one for her. Yes. Precisely what she needs. A good idea. Kitty takes it from him gratefully.

He held it between his lips to light it. But the end is dry and tasteless, unmarked, as though he were hardly real.

"I have spare copies of the book, if you want one."

"That's good of you, Kitty, but I'd miss all the little places where I made my notes. You found out things Mycroft never even let me dream of. Anyway, I think this brings us neatly enough to the business of this evening... Are you feeling okay now, love?"

Kitty nods. Drags hard on the cigarette. "Much better."

"Can I get you something? I remember where the kettle is."

"It's fine. I... I take it this is all about your _announcement_ this afternoon?"

He wants to grin. He wants to glow all over with pride. He crushes it all intoa playful smirk, and then forces this too to disappear. With the appropriate gravity, "You caught that, then."

"Couldn't miss it. Every telly channel, every radio station... Bit loud, for a dead man, surely?"

He stands before her, holding out his open hands, and says delightedly, "Not dead."

"Not anymore. I switched my phone off. Kept thinking what people would start saying about me."

"Which is why I came to you just as soon as I could, love. I've got a proposition for you." He settles opposite her on the sofa. That gives him pause. His hand reaches out and roves over the recent reupholstery, fine embroidered silk. His eyes slowly close. His voice is rapt. "This is where _he_ sat, isn't it?"

Kitty nods, blowing smoke. "Handcuffed to John Watson."

Their laughter starts as a snigger and grows into something huge, almost hysterical. It's hard to say who starts it, and it doesn't end until both are breathlessly sighing. "I read about that. Wish to _God_ I'd seen it."

Kitty wipes a new sort of tear from the corner of her eye. "You were saying?"

"Was I? Oh, aye. Well, it's fairly simple, really. People are going to talk about you anyway. The cops'll probably be here tonight to ask all sorts of questions. If they show up now, I'm off out the bathroom window again. But basically, Kitty, how would you like the inside line on my return?"

No. It's too dangerous. People will think she always knew, that they were in league. She'll lose everything. And now that she doesn't feel like she's in immediate danger of death, losing everything isn't such a happy prospect as it was five minutes ago. No. No, and now that she's thought about it, she's right back to wishing him gone, a million miles away, as dead as he pretended.

"I've thought about it," he tells her, "and I _could_ give it to someone else. But it's going to be really messy, and you're involved anyway. It might as well be you. Think how high profile it'll be. No more shadow-boxing, me and Holmes. Not an option anymore. We're very much going at it out in the streets now."

He is watching as her tremors return. His face falls as though he's gone to a great effort, and as though he always knew it would get him nowhere. "Kitty, I'm in a good mood today. Things are going swimmingly so far. Because I am in a good mood, I'm doing you the awe-inspiring courtesy of making it sound-"

"Like I have a choice in the matter."

He gives a gracious bow of his head.

Well, if the police are coming tonight, that gives her options, doesn't it? And she's sure he's far too clever to use a traceable phone. And there's no law against being in touch with someone if you don't know how to find them. Reporting doesn't make one an accessory after the fact, does it? All of this runs through Kitty's head very quickly. It's confused and half-hearted. Part determined to get her out of this, part determined to make the very best of a bad situation... If it could work... If it could only be made to work...

"Well, in that case, Mr Moriarty-" She stops to drag again on her cigarette. Outwardly she tries to make it look as though she does this for effect. Really she couldn't finish the sentence without it, "I accept."


End file.
